scraps¹⁴ of sodden¹⁵ letters lying in the ash-barrel have their meaning: desperate appeals, perhaps, from Tom, the baker’s assistant, to Amelia, the daughter of the dry-goods retailer¹⁶, who is always selling at a sacrifice in consequence of the late fire. That may be Tom himself who is now passing me in a white apron¹⁷, and I look up at the windows of the house (which does not, however, give any signs of a recent conflagration) and almost hope to see Amelia wave a white pocket-handkerchief. The bit of orange-peel lying on the sidewalk inspires thought. Who will fall over it? who but the industrious¹⁸ mother of six children, the eldest¹⁹ of which is only nine months old, all of whom are dependent on her exertions²⁰ for support? I see her slip and tumble. I see the pale face convulsed with agony, and the vain struggle to get up; the pitying crowd closing her off from all air; the anxious young doctor who happened to be passing by; the manipulation of the broken limb, the shake of the head, the moan of the victim, the litter borne on men’s shoulders, the gates of the New York Hospital unclosing, the subscription²¹ taken up on the spot. There is some food for speculation²² in that three-year-old, tattered²³ child, masked with dirt, who is throwing a brick at another three-year-old, tattered child, masked with dirt. It is not difficult to perceive that he is destined²⁴ to

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